


Drained

by judinthegalaxy



Category: Cursed (TV 2020), Cursed - Thomas Wheeler
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Found Family, I will add tags as the story progesses, I'm going to take some freedom when creating the magic system, Lancelot is trying his best, Magic, Magic Bond, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Possible Spoilers, Post-Canon, Post-Final Chapter, Season 2 Speculation, original magic system, single parent lancelot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:54:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25615414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/judinthegalaxy/pseuds/judinthegalaxy
Summary: The Weeping Monk? Lancelot? If he doesn't know to what name does he has to respond, how is he going to know his place in this world?For now, he's going to make sure the Squirrel finds his poeple. Or that's what he thought, just before starting to feel something so deep inside him that he does not have another option but to follow what it says.What happens when that call leads him towards a lake? What he has to do with this woman with whom he feels so strongly connected? What will be her reaction when she wakes up?
Relationships: Nimue/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Squirrel | Percival & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 80
Kudos: 349





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because we all have fell in love with these marvelous characters and this relationship with so much potential, I wanted to post what would be my ideal season 2!

_Where to beging?_

_With water?_

_Or with fire?_

He has always felt cold. Darkness, emptiness, death. But above all, it is always the cold that summons him, even if he’s walking through flames.

Sometimes he can fear lighting bolts of fear striking at him in the middle of the night, when the blood of his punishments is still fresh running through his skin, leaving behind it strokes of red.

Blood seems to be the only constant factor of his life as the solid purpose of his path. That’s’ what they told him, what they made him believe. Still, now it’s his own blood the one that coagulates in his eyebrows, drying in the cold air and making even harder to keep his eyes open. But he has to, a primitive whisper inside him pushing him with the question: Who would command the horse, the kid?

His body is shivering, maybe because of the freezing landscape, or maybe because his body can’t take it any longer. Perhaps he has one of those infections some healers whisper in their tents, or for instance is the Devil who’s trying to nail his claws on his barely existing soul. That’s what Father Carden is praying for at this moment, he’s sure of it.

“Stop laying on me!” screams the little boy. “You’re heavy, you know. And smell horrible.”

A few answers cross his mind, but he’s too tired to pronounce them, or to even consider them. However, a tiny smirk shadows his lips for what it seems the first time in a while. He could have a worst death, that’s for sure.

Or that’s what he thought.

First it’s in his shoulder, then in his stomach. A growl crawls his throat, scaring the boy and the horse almost at the same time. He feels, but he’s not sure of what exactly is turning his guts into a storm of turmoil and despair and threatens to torn him apart.

He needs to dismount the horse; he need to feel the ground.

His wrecked body hits the ground, his breath knocked out of him when the pain of his wounds slashes through him. Lancelot heart starts to beat fast, stronger than before, and the air he breaths seems to not be enough for his lungs. It escapes him, and when he opens his mouth he can only savour the taste of water and blood.

And then, just as the tiny spark that’s created because of the friction of two rocks, an unusual heat blossoms in his chest for the first time in his life. Magic? Hasn’t the Hidden turned on him? Still, it feels different from anything he has ever felt, too powerful to be his own and too good to come from him.

Lancelot thinks he can hear the little boy screaming his name, but maybe because it still feels strange to answer by it, he feels like not responding to the call.

He grapes the muddy floor, mud escaping between his fingers as he tries to control his breathing and clear his thoughts. His body burn with an unknown force, as if it was telling him something, but he has repressed the magic and his connection with the land that he can’t barely read the meaning behind it. And it hurts so much.

Breathing hurts, almost as if he was drowning, but stones digging into his knees and hands remained him of the land that it’s watching him being torn apart. 

“Lancelot!” The voice of the little kid pierces through his mind, painfully slow.

But he can’t let go, not yet when it seems as if he’s missing something.

_Someone._

That whisper… He hasn’t heard anything in years, only the poisonous voice of Father.

_Someone needs you._

“Who?” he asks.

_In the lake._

He needs air. He can’t breathe.

Little hands shake him, the wound of his arm screaming for mercy. But Lancelot grabs that heat even stronger, some deep part almost forgotten inside him telling him to no let go. It burns him, trying to consume every piece that it’s left inside him, but he holds onto it. A little more. Just one breath. He has to do it.

Then, the burning explodes.

Air fills his lungs and he collapses on the ground, blue sky above him and a little boy shaking his body.

The whisper is still repeating the words, but now is a female voice the one that asks him to find her. Who would him to find them? No-one. _In the lake, find me in the lake._

“We’re changing routes.” His voice really sounds as if he almost drowned.

“What?!” Squirrel screams. “They are searching for us!”

“We need to.”

“Why!”

“I don’t know.”

Hans on his knees, a pain that seems almost unbearable if not because of all the mercy Father Carden has put him through all those years. Nothing of that matters now, he has to keep going, and he will do it even if that takes away his last breath.

“Where’re you going?!”

“To the lake”, he whispers.

Mounting while hearing the boy’s curses and complains should be considerate another type of torture, but he obeys and helps him to keep straight and looking after that mysterious lake that keeps calling him.

* * *

At some point the little boy is the only thing that keeps him steady enough to continue this crazy pursuit, but despite the screams from him body to let it go, he keeps going; he keeps graving with strength that little spark inside him.

Time seems meaningless when Percival starts to hear the rush of water running.

“Lancelot!” he screams, trying to call him back.

And that who now responds to that name feels a rush he can only compare when he had to fight a large number or a dangerous mission as the Weeping Monk. The rush of adrenaline fuels him into taking the horse’s reins and get into full tracker mood. With his mind settled in a goal and that as his only focus, he manages to work properly, to forget the pain that Hell was inflicting him to see if he succumbs —as Father Carden had told him many times— and only seek for his objective. Even if he isn’t sure of that it’s anymore.

The lake, far from being a calm reflection, seems to empathise with the turmoil that the world is drowning right now. That doesn’t stop him, not even a heartbeat.

Once they approach even more the lake, the pull inside him is almost everything he can perceive and feel. That’s why he doesn’t question not even one of the movements that his body does following this instinct.

Trying to not show any of his pain, he dismounts the horse and ties it in a tree near the lake.

“Don’t dismount”, Lance orders the boy. He takes off his clock. “Here, get covered. If you feel someone or you see anything, go.”

“No.”

“Just… Do it.”

And it’s then, when he faces the lake, that something inside him takes the control. But nothing has to do as when Father Carden pulled him towards some scenarios or situations, when, at night, he doubted if those were his actions or the whispers he has been hearing for ages. This is different, he feels it. Rather than make him shiver, even when he enters the water, he feels a heat that keeps him going. 

Time doesn’t exist anymore. The cold, freezing, waters starts to numb him, air begging to enter into his lungs. He has lost the sense of orientation and, at one moment under the water, he doesn’t know what’s up and what’s down.

His blood has tinted his surroundings, and some rational part of his brain screams him to leave, that he might have lost a lot of blood and he’s in no position to rest in order to make a full recovery. But that instinct is so strong inside him, that he cannot move.

Or he thinks that until he spots more blood. However, this times it’s the water the one that carries it.

And he knows it.

It doesn’t make sense.

But who cares.

With the last strength he can pull off, he starts swimming towards the rocks that seem to be the starting point from where the blood flows. It almost feels as if he’s fighting an invisible enemy, some kind of force that’s trying to stop him.

Nothing matter, not when he can start to see a person grabbing a rock with as if they life depends of it. He swims even harder, going against the tide, to find that the person is in fact, a beautiful young girl.

Lancelot can swear —and he never does it— that something in his world changes as the water stops freezing him and he can fully breathe for the first time since he can remember. No longer does his wounds matter, not when that girl that could light up the whole world is struggling to even breathe.

For what he can see, he has two important wounds, caused by arrows, but despite the nasty wound on her shoulder, the one in the abdomen region seems to be not that deep thanks to the leather corset. Even the arrow has disappeared while the one in her shoulder has been ripped. He has to take than one off before it gets infected.

Without caring for anything but her, Lancelot tries to grab her with the utmost delicacy and try to put her laying on his back while he swims back to the shore.

The boy, Percival, is there, against everything he has said to him.

He screams when he sees them.

“Nimue!”

Lancelot doesn’t have enough strength to ask for the name or recriminate the lack of respect this boy seems to have toward orders.

With the help of the boy they lay her on the grass and it only takes second for her to look better. Lancelot orders the boy —this time he follows the commands— to bring some kind of tissue so he can rip the broken arrow and help the fresh wound.

They do it, but she doesn’t react. Not immediately.

Little by little she seems to gain more of that strength that made Lancelot able to track her.

That’s when the fire inside him seems to burn out, and when all of his tiredness, exhaustion and pain come back. But just a little more. Being as careful as he can with the wounds, he starts to press her chest, praying to whoever is there to listen to make her come back. Frustration grows inside him when the girl doesn’t react.

“Please”, he begs, maybe for the first time in his life.

Then, in slow motion, her hands start to grip on the land, a deep connection inside her surfaces despite the water that tried to drown her. But it’s not only the power of the land, of the spirits of the woods, that returns the colour of her cheeks and makes her heartbeat grow faster. Another kind of energy settles deep in her chest, blossoming inside her with such strength that she is unable to stop the rush that propels her to one side to throw out all the water accumulated in her lungs.

Lancelot feels such a wave of relief that he falls to his knees, his body unable to keep his weight any longer. He can only watch her take deep breaths, just before Squirrel jumps into her arms. He can’t form a question, not when his sight starts to blur and breathing seems to drain him from all the energy that has kept him up for the last hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it!


	2. Chapter 2

_“I thought I could not breathe in that fine air that pure severity of perfect light I yearned for warmth and colour which I found in Lancelot.”_

_Alfred Lord Tennyson_

Only when she’s capable of breathing without feeling she wants to die, Nimue allows her to suck in what surrounds her. The first thing she recognises is Squirrel sent, wrapped around her like a warm, cosy blanket that will protect her from the awful world that surrounds her, despite being her the older one.

These thoughts only last a few seconds before everything seems to come back to her.

One.

Two.

Sister Iris.

Merlin.

No, father.

He was holding her for his life. He also screamed. Agony.

And then, nothing.

Well, yes, she can remember something. Water, so much water she thought the whole world was drowning. But it was just her. It didn’t hurt, not even the fall, or she maybe can remember. Is she dead?

Nimue looks into Squirrel blue eyes and she knows she’s alive, painfully alive. The wound in her shoulders hurts as a hundred curses, the one in her stomach not so much. She can’t believe she’s here, breathing and trembling from the freezing water.

The only thing that she can clearly remember of those in-between moments it’s a warm pull, as if somebody was holding her, pinning her into this world. And she also felt it just a few seconds ago, when her lungs hurt too much from trying to breathe again. But that warm, sparkle, was there with her. Maybe it was her mom that tried to be with her in those moments, or she was the one trying to convince her to no let go. Nimue can’t tell, the only thing she’s sure about is that, she shouldn’t be alive after such fall.

“Have you rescue…” The rest of the words fall dead in the air when she parts her eyes from Squirrel and into the figure kneeled before her.

The world moves too fast for any of the presents to know what’s happening next, not even when Nimue moves to grab the knife hidden in her leg to brandish the file towards the neck of the most infamous warrior of all the kingdom. The hold is so strong that a tiny line of blood starts to descend through his neck until adding more dirty to an already disgusting armour.

Nimue’s heart is beating so fast she can’t even recall how she moved without hurting herself, but she doesn’t care, not when a weeping pair of eyes are looking straight to her soul.

“Give me a good reason to not slash your throat open.”

“Nimue!” Squirrel screams, but she holds him behind her.

He doesn’t answer. Maybe because he doesn’t know the answer, maybe because he’s too focused on not fainting right here right there, he just keeps looking at here. With those troubled aquamarine eyes that seem to have the weight of the world resting on them. For a second, even less, Nimue hesitates about her next move, about what she will do once the time of waiting ends. She has to kill him, there’s no other option, he’s a killer who has massacred countless of people. Still, he has saved her, despite being the Fey Queen.

But the minutes pass and she’s unable to move her arm even a little bit, just a quick swim and she will have his throat open. A little bit of pressure and the file will cute the carotid. Nimue stays still, feeling as she was drowning again but inside his eyes, a burning pressing in her chest screaming to move away, to retire the knife and do something.

Squirrel hasn’t stopped yelling her name and grabbing her arm in his intent to free himself from it.

“I can’t.”

It’s the first time she hears the deep whisper of his voice, and whatever she thought about him disappears from her mind. He’s not an old Monk in a cruse with some stupid belief, no; it’s a young boy, he can’t be much older than her. And that voice… That pain… He really thinks he’s going to die at her hands.

****

Lancelot doesn’t fear death.

Death maybe the only thing that has been consistent in his life. From the attack on his village when he was only six, the punishments that Father Carden has made him go through and let him on the verge of death, to all the lives that had reached their end at his hands. He knows he deserves to die, and that it could had happened in several times, like fighting the Trinity Guard. Now, bleeding from too many wounds and with a knife in his throat… There are worst ways to die. Also, dying at the hands of a beautiful fey it’s almost poetic.

He’s not scare of death. Maybe from what waits for him at the other end, but not the relieve to abandon this world.

Or he thought that until he heard the boy— Percival, weeps his name. His real one.

The look on the girl’s eyes changes drastically.

***

He has a name, a real one. Not a pseudonym or a made up, but one that it was probably given to him by his parents. Even more, one that sounds… magical. Nimue doesn’t know why, but that changes everything from her. There isn’t a monster in front of him anymore, but a _man_.

“Lancelot…” she whispers, repeating Squirrel’s words.

Never his name has sounded so beautiful but coming from her lips. It almost sounds too good, too _right_ to be his. He’s not worthy of such sound.

Nimue starts to feel how her hand starts to tremble once that the decision her heart has done surfaces towards her grip. Slowly, she starts to pull off the knife, leaving behind a thin line of fresh blood that remains him of the real threat this woman is.

It has to be her.

“This is not for you.” Nimue turns her head a little bit, just to see Squirrel’s eyes focus on the Monk. “It’s for him.”

“He saved me. He freed me and fought the Trinity Guard to save me”, whispers Squirrel. “And I think he’s…”

“Fey”, answers Nimue for him. “I can feel it.”

It’s not that he can feel it overall, it’s just this burning sensation inside her that has been telling her something about him since she saw his eyes, and for that feeling she knew what she doesn’t want to accept, because him being a Fey change everything. Including what buzzes beside knowing his real name.

“The council will decide what we do with him.” Maybe if she doesn’t acknowledge his presence, it will affect her less.

It’s when Nimue moves away from him, standing her whole height that she feels the pain. The worst one it’s on her shoulder. She moves the hand towards there, realizing that she has a precarious bandage and no arrow.

“He healed you.” Squirrel is trying to move past Nimue to help his new companion, who still is kneeled in the ground, breathing taking all his strength.

“The council will decide what we’re gonna do.”

At this point, both of them know who is the other one. And they also know that Nimue could make a decision in this precise moment and it would be the final word in the Weeping Monk. But she needs time to think because too much has happened in the last hours, and she also needs to consider what’s the best move to do with him. A trade? A public sentence like the ones his people does? Let him rot for all the eternity in a dark dungeon? Do they even have a dungeon?

After a few more minutes of palpable tension, Percival moves towards the Monk in order to make him stand. After all, they have to keep moving, even more now that they are two of the most searched people by the Red Paladins.

However, a body has its limits, and Lancelot body has given up.

In the precise moment he stands, the boy still besides him, he feels an horrendous pain in his side, but also in his chin, back, and shoulder. With trembling hands, he presses his side, only to find that, if the horse ride had given the opportunity to his body to start healing, swimming and carrying a body has reopened every wound in his body.

Blood coats his hand, and he knows that if he looks, the other wounds will be in the same situation.

All the warmth that he has felt now banishes and cold starts to cripple inside him. No longer being able to sustain his own weight, he falls again to his knees, but this time he lays down in the ground, spitting the blood that has started to accumulate in his mouth. A thunderous pain hits his head and he can’t but growl at the sudden wave of agony he’s being throw at.

“Lancelot!” the boy screams. “Nimue!”

Nimue hears the concern in Squirrel, but she supposes that if he has saved her friends life, that would create a bond. But what surprises her is that she’s also worried. For a second he was standing there, tall and broad-shouldered, and the next one there’s too much blood in his clothes and he’s falling into his knees, almost unconscious, bleeding from different wounds due to saving Squirrel’s life, and hers. That incipient buzz in the back of her head starts to whisper, loud. She can’t understand what they say, but she runs towards him, ignoring the pain of her shoulder, and puts a hand in his forehead.

“He’s burning.”

“He has an infection.”

Nimue shakes her head.

“I don’t’ think so. But he has lost a lot of blood.” Nimue looks to all the red that tints they grey of his tunic. “We need to stop the bleeding before moving.”

Nimue tries to remember the best way to seal the wound, wishing she paid more attention in her mother lessons. She sends Squirrel back to the woods, being the one unharmed, he will be faster. He only accepts it after Nimue promises to not let his new friend die.

Only once they are alone, Nimue lets herself look at his face. Several scrapes, bruises, a three-day beard, and those sad tears. What would that mean? It’s a religious symbol? Or… it’s something Fey? Nimue lets out sigh. He’s too young, younger than any other Paladin she has faced. And why a Fey would… do what he has done?

Alone in the woods, and with a hand buried in the wet soil, she caresses Lancelot neck, healing the wound she has inflicted. She can’t explain, but she just knows that there’s more of this story than what they have witnessed, and that having the best warrior of the kingdom and ex-Paladin would be the greatest advantage the Fey could have asked.

There are marks in his forehead, as if this is the first time in ages he’s relaxed.

Nimue slips her look from Lancelot to the lake, where she almost died and, somewhat, she survived, with not too bad injuries and breathing. The water is calm, any sign of blood there.

Looking at the quiet lake, with the hand still resting on Lancelot’s neck, she thinks she doesn’t want the council to kill him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what do you think about this!! Also, thank you so so much for all the kudos, ilysm <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're gonna start seeing the development of Nimue and Lancelot's relationship and I'm soooo excited about it!  
> Hope you like it!

It has been two days since they abandoned the shore of the lake.

Two days of almost not gaining distance because they are three people, one horse and the animal is used to carry the unconscious most lethal warrior of all the kingdom. Squirrel has declined mounting, despite having the shortest legs, because he said that it should be Nimue the one mounting since she’s the wounded one. Despite being a good reason, Nimue isn’t ready —not yet— to share a horse with the later Weeping Monk. She still remembers the burning sensation that her body felt when she had to mend and treat his wounds. Better to keep the distance for a little while.

“Are you feeling okay?”

Squirrel voice surprises her.

“Yes, a little bit sore but not as bad as I would have guessed from having such injuries.” The only place in her body that truly hurt is her shoulder, and she can deal with that. After everything she has been through during the last weeks, she can cope with it a little better.

“You think he’s gonna die?”

Squirrel doesn’t say a name, but they both know who he’s referring to. They haven’t settled a camp for the day, only stopping to hunt something and eat, so she hasn’t removed his bands for two days. He is very hurt, to the point Nimue knows that not everyone would have survived such injuries, not even a Fey.

“How did he get hurt?” It’s the first time since she has seen those aquamarine eyes that she’s ready to know more about him.

“Trying to protect me.” Squirrel voice lowers. Now he does look like a scared child. “He already defended me before. That same morning, when they captured me while I was trying to free Gawain.” Nimue doesn’t has the heart to tell him what happened with their friend. “I was brought to an interrogation. The dude was really ugly; he even didn’t had eyes. Well, and then he entered. I didn’t know what to think. And like that, he cuts the other guy’s throat open and frees me! But in our way out the camp there was these other dudes with gold faces, and he ordered me to hide.” Nimue rises an eyebrow at the thought of someone ordering something to Squirrel and he agreeing. “I did it! And he fights them! You should have seen it! It was like… ten people against him. And he did it! Ben then more people came and they started to beat him, and he was outnumbered and then he was grabbed by the neck and I thought they were going to kill him. I grabbed his sword and tried to help him! But again… he’s really good and took the distraction to beat them all. I helped him to walk and we leaved the camp. The next day he started to behave strangely and the next moment we were going after you.”

That is the answer that scared Nimue to know. Because this —without taking into account what he did for her— is a prove that deep down there’s still something alive, something that might be able to get saved whatsoever. Or that’s just Nimue’s perfect idealization of what would happen. Maybe he just used Squirrel to escape, but why he would do that? And why save her? That doesn’t make sense.

They walk till they are too exhausted to continue and they decide to stop and rest till next morning. When they find the perfect spot, they drop the few things they have been carrying to accommodate them into something that can help them feel a little bit more comfortable in the woods floor. Then, it comes to difficult stuff, to dismount Lancelot from the horse.

Nimue ends up deciding that the best idea is to try to wake him, or at least bring him back from unconsciousness as much as possible so he helps her to carry him, because she doubts that, even without being hurt, she could carry him. But how to do that? Firstly, she asks Squirrel to try to light up a fire while she dismounts Lancelot. Secondly, she prepares herself to be close to him.

It’s not fear what runs in her veins every time they are close —or the counted times they have actually touched— but something she is unable to name or recognize. For one, Nimue thought that by keeping the distance these last days it would disappear, but the moment she’s close enough to watch how his chest rises and falls, it comes back as if it never leaved. Living, pulsating, a buzz in the back of her neck that makes her fingers treble when she’s a breath away from touching him.

A wave of relief goes through her when she touches his face and it’s no longer burning. At least they have dogged that arrow.

“Please, remember me”, she wishes before taking the final step towards him.

But what Nimue doesn’t know is that, between horrible feverish dreams, he has seen her, with him, giving him the little peace he thinks he doesn’t deserve. The little imaginary moments are what kept him grabbing tightly that warm string inside him. Even now, surrounded by darkness and pain, he thinks he can hear her, the same way that her scent, the one he has fight so much to capture, is now surrounding him as a cloak against the shadows that creep inside him.

“I need you to wake up, I need you to dismount so I can take a look at your wounds.” A heartbeat. “I can’t move you alone.”

In between the fog he recognizes her; her voice, her warmth. So he pulls the threat towards her.

He growls when his muscles move for the first time in days. But he’s awaken enough to feel how she grabs him by the arms and directs him to dismount the horse without opening his head. His legs tremble a little bit when they hit the ground, but she doesn’t let go of him, she stays there till he’s sure enough to be able to walk towards whatever she directs. She already has done for him more than anyone else in his life.

Nimue lays him beside the fire that Squirrel has managed to light up, she’s going to need that light because she doesn’t want to risk to not see what she’s doing and end up with a worse situation.

She’s about to pull off all the layers of clothes when a bloody hand stops her. Nimue looks up to find a semi-open eyes begging her in silence.

“Don’t…” If it wasn’t because she’s almost upon him, she wouldn’t have heard him.

“I need to look at the ointments I put the other day.”

“But with the clothes.”

Nimue growls. She can’t believe this. She’s offering to heal someone that has murdered her own village and he still throws commands here and there. As if.

“I’m going to pull out your tunic, and then I will pull up your shirt.” Nimue’s tone is the one she has started to use when she is required to act as a Queen.

At first he doesn’t move, but then he brings his hands to undue the cape’s straps. They leave the cape then like that so it will serve as some kind of protection against the dirty ground. Then it comes to the thick long tunic. They end up by cutting it off. Lancelot will still have the dirty, battered, and bloody undershirt to dress.

Despite already having had a look at the bloodied shirt and some of the worsts wounds, it still shocks Nimue that he survived the fight. And thanks to the light she no longer wonders how he survived the fight, but how he survived all these wounds. Silver scars marks his chest, once more deep than the others, newer and older. It’s almost scary to think how those where made, and what happened to the ones who inflicted them. Nimue shifts her look towards his eyes, who are looking at her. She does want to ask, to say anything that would give away the story.

“I have been fighting for a long time.” It’s the only answer she gets to the unspoken question.

“How long?”

“Since I can remember.” A shiver goes down Nimue’s spine, not because of what he said, but because of the meaning behind them.

Once again, she feels like there’s too much to unpack here.

Trying to think about him as any other Fey, Nimue starts to mend his wounds as best as she can with the things they have. Luckily, the ointments seem to have worked just fine and the bleeding has stopped. The ideal scenario would be to remove the solid mass they have formed and stitch the ones that need it, but they don’t have anything to do so, neither a band that’s enough clean to protect the injury nor a needle to close it. They will have to wait till they find the others Fey, _if_ they find them.

As if Squirrel was reading their minds, he asks:

“Are we now to find them?”

Nimue doesn’t know how to answer that, because she doesn’t have any idea of how are they going to do it.

“Yes.” She turns to the Monk, who’s not looking at her, but at Squirrel. “I can find them. Somehow I’m very good at tracking.”

And that confession clicks in Nimue. That’s probably one of the reasons why they kept him instead of… applying whatever punishment they do to the Fey. And even then, it seems like they did not treat their own property very well. Not that she cares.

Not at all.

“With the odds in our favour they may think I’m dead, so that can give us a small advantage.” Nimue’s trying to picture the perfect plan to go back to her people while staying alive. “We will have to take secondary roads and try to gather some supplies while not entering towns or anything that could be a little bit crowded.”

They have to move, they are still too close to the Red Paladin’s camp and they probably are the group of most searched persons in the kingdom. It has to be fast.

That’s what moves them next morning. Lancelot it’s still the one who rides the horse, despite protesting during all the argument. Nimue is the one that takes the lead, wounds in much better condition thanks to all the strength gained during these last days. And it also helps her feel like she’s in total control of the situation. She needs that feeling, even more if the infamous Weeping Monk is mounting after her.

Pain aside, the buzzing has stopped enough for Nimue to pretend it’s not there. That means that she thinks clearer, with less commotions to take care of, and she can see how stupid she was when she accepted the Monks company without even thinking. Or trying to heal him. She should have tied him on the horse and weaken him, or even let him die. However, she still hears the worry in Squirrel voice, and that was enough for her. 

There’s no talk during the days if not by Squirrel’s monologs about whatever subject she felt it was worth to talk. Nimue thanked him that because it meant that she has not to face the silent between all of them. But the nights are there, and she has to keep a guard even if he says he will do it. Still, she’s always the first one to fall asleep and, when she wakes up, she finds him still keeping the guard. It’s only a few days into their travelling situation that she starts to realise that it’s because he might not be sleeping. The marks under his eyes are darker, more prominent.

Nimue forces herself to not worry about it.

But her mom told her that she always had a big heart.

“How’re your wounds?” she asks him when they stop to eat something.

He snaps his head towards her, the surprise flying by the features of his face. He really looks tired.

“Good”, he whispers.

She wouldn’t had thought he was a quiet person.

“I’m sure you’re saying that because you don’t want to admit it.”

“Pain make us stronger.”

“That’s bullshit”, Nimue snaps.

“God…” Lancelot starts talking, but he isn’t able to finish his thoughts. Were these words his or just… something it has been said to him so many times that he can’t discern from the ones that he actually produces? “No matter.”

He’s lying, Nimue notices. Something inside her tells her to keep digging, to keep asking, but a scream breaks through the air.

Assailants.

Everything starts to spin. Lancelot is quick enough to protect Percival from one of the attackers by putting him behind him, covering the boy with his body. Luckily he never parts from his trusted sword, so he lets his body guide the battle.

Nimue sees that from a corner of her eye, so she can focus all of her attention in the man that goes after her.

When she goes about to take her sword to fight the man, her hand touches air, and nothing more.

The sword is not with her and, if her memory is correct, Merlin has it which means… If she is sincere with herself, she doesn’t have any clue of what Merlin would be doing with the sword.

She’s fast enough the remember the little knife that she keeps in her boat —and used a few days ago to threat the Monk— and blade it just as if it is the Sword of Power. Magic is out the question as she is trying to use every gap of it to heal her own wounds faster. But the man seems to have basic notions of fighting, and the blade of the knife is not long enough to give her some sort of advantage in the body combat.

Just as she’s about to do something stupid, the mouth of the man opens in a silent scream and blood starts to run from his lips. A blade trespasses his chest.

When he falls, Nimue can see the Monk barely hanging there, with his sword still in the air where the man stoop merely seconds before.

She doesn’t know why, but the action angered her.

“I had it.”

“I’m sure.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a brief mention of what we could consider anxiety in this chapter, but I have been very concious about writing so it wouldn't trigger anyone (myself included). I'm gonna work on Lancelot behaviour and traumas, but I promise that I'm going to do my best so anyone can enjoy this story.
> 
> Love you all, and hope you like the chapter!

The group feels like they have been walking for all the eternity. They are all tired, even if Squirrel denies it, and Goliath can’t carry them all. Nimue is the first one that refuses to mount, exposing that Lancelot, due to his wounds, should be the one mounting with Squirrel. But he refuses.

Men.

She doesn’t know if it’s because of the male stubbornness or because some kind of “ladies first”, but she would have tied him to the horse if she had the rope, and the strength to go after him. but what annoys her the most is that he doesn’t complain not even once, taking away Nimue’s opportunity to yell him “told you so”. That insufflates her.

It’s in their sixth night of journey, when they have already eaten what they have been able to hunt, that she sees him flinch when he touches his side.

“It still hurts?”

He snaps his head back at her, shame briefly crossing his features.

“No.”

Nimue grins.

“I though lying was a sin.”

She feels happy to see the shock face he does when the words kick him. But she keeps the look on him, trying to find any sign that the pain is there, or that he has any emotion to show.

“It will heal.” She doesn’t know why she speaks those words, but she feels the need to reassure him, to make him at least a little better.

He doesn’t say anything. He looks at her and just nods. A thousand of words, all said by the same voice, crosses his mind. ‘It will get better’, ‘it doesn’t hurt that much’, ‘it will be okay, boy’, ‘God only gives you what you can deal with’, ‘there has to be wounds in order to heal’, ‘don’t let anyone see it, or it will be a weakness’. A hand presses against the ripped open flesh of his back and, in order to not show it, he bites the inside of his cheek till there’s blood to silent the scream of pain that growls in his chest. ‘Pain is the only way He will accept your pardon, and it will heal’.

Lancelot closes his eyes, trying to expel those — _that_ — voices from his head. All those years talking to him behind his ear has made him unable to discern his own thoughts from the sinister voice. Nails pierce his skin. Why can they leave? Is this his punishment? To know that he will never be good, that there always will be pain?

He deserves it. Everything. All of this.

“Lancelot!” He snaps his head up to see Squirrel looking at him with big eyes. He even would have said the girl was also looking at him, but now she’s too focused on the hem of her dress. “I have been calling you! Not only you’re ugly but you’ll also be deaf.”

He hears a suffocated laugh from where she’s. That delicate sound, in a strange way, cleans away some of that voices that doesn’t allow his heart to return at normal speed. Still, he tries his bests to focus on the boy and shallow the trembling that threatens of breaking him into million pieces.

Nimue, even if she’s at good distance of the two boys, she hasn’t lost sight of the Monk reaction of what was trying to be comforting words. She has seen the tremble, and the way he closed his eyes when he turned from her. However, what has been more disturbing is the way she has felt his fear, the rush of his blood while he tried to keep it still, to himself. Squirrel, on the contrary of her, seems to be unaware of the state of his new friend. He’s telling him something so passionately that, even Nimue who has probably already heard it, can’t tear his eyes from his expressive gestures. That brings him to her peripheral view.

When looking at him, she feels so torn apart. What it’s the correct way to act in such moments, when you know what he has done, the blood that he has shred. Still, she feels that pull, the whispers of The Hidden, towards him. And that’s why she decides to step forwards.

“Squirrel”, calls Nimue, maybe a little higher than what is pertinent, but she’s starting to feel the Monk anguish in her own bones. “Can you get me that lavender that we saw at the river bank, I think it will help us to sleep.” She puts her best efforts to make sure that the child knows the meaning behind her words, trusting that if he cares so much for his friend, he will understand what she’s actually asking.

“Uhm… Okay?”

Another harsh look is what takes for Squirrel to leave the Monk’s side, just when he seems so lost in himself that he’s about to snap. How? She doesn’t know, and that’s something that scares her.

Once the boy is out of sight, she moves fast towards him.

That scares him, maybe just for a second till he realizes that she’s not wearing red, nor it smells like incense, but it’s just enough to Nimue to realize that something is truly wrong with him.

“What was the last time you slept properly?” she asks while slowly moving towards him.

“When we found you.”

“Being knocked out by a fever or exhaustion doesn’t count.” She should stop asking, she should stop talking to him and trying to create whatever type of conversation this is. But here she is, trying to figure out if the marks under his eyes are just that, marks, or if there are also dark circles too.

He just bends his head and looks at his own hands, full of dirt from the past days in the woods. It’s the first time in a long time that he doesn’t have blood on them.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Nimue puffs. It’s like talking to a rock.

And it’s not fair! She’s not the villain of this story, so she shouldn’t be the one seeking for a way to empathise with the other part. The buzz that has been at bay these last days starts to come back, and that only angers Nimue even more. Not only she has to stand him in person, but she also has to feel this sort of thing that she starts to suspect comes from him. Does he also feel it? Has he done something to her?

Where the heck is Merlin when you need him?

Without glancing at him one last time, she stands up and goes to search for Squirrel. He can calm himself, alone.

***

That’s the last time she tries to start some sort of conversation with him. They only talk when it’s needed. The rest of the time it’s just Squirrel filling the silence. She’s thankful for that, even more when it’s very noticeable that they are only a few hours away from the new camps base, or that’s what the Monk says when the sun starts to fall down.

“We will continue. We have to arrive as soon as possible. I have been out enough time.” Nimue is so tired she thinks she could sleep for days, but right now finding the settlement is the most important thing to do.

And to put even more distance between her and the Monk. Her emotions seem to have got accustomed to him, so she goes through an emotion journey every day that she feels his proximity, his look and that strange feeling in her guts that tells her that he wants to say something, still he’s silent. She hasn’t seen him in the anxious state of that day, but the truth is that she has tried to not give him any piece of her time. She has to be realistic, he’s the enemy, the Red Paladin’s dog that annihilates everything that stands in his way. Who says that this is not a bizarre strategy to get into their camp? She has to be smart, she’s the Fey Queen and for that the safety of her people is the most important thing to take into consideration. There’s not space in this situation for Nimue’s hunch about the man that follows them with heavy steps.

Squirrel goes silent as the sun goes down, and the tension can be felt for everyone in the group. Lancelot has taken the lead, being that the best option for him to track any clue that would prevent them from sleeping another night in the cold forest. He has seen how the girl and the boy shiver when their clothes are not enough to keep them warm at night. Percival had accepted part of the clothes that she ripped from him when she healed him, but every night the need of offering to her his cape burned in his tongue. He’s a monster, he has known that for almost all his life, but during brief moments when her starlight eyes focused on him, he felt as if there is something more inside him. But that’s probably just part of the illusion of being wounded and having to cooperate in order to survive. Now, closer than even of what Father Carden would consider their biggest win, he feels that he’s going to his final sentence.

He deserves it.

The sky is tinted in a beautiful pink when she notices the Monk stopping.

“What was that…” She hears him whisper, but in her position to not talk to him, she ignores it completely and focuses on trying to sense if they are in danger. And it pains her to acknowledge that he’s right when a bunch of assailants jump on them.

Her first thought is Squirrel. She draws her blade off and runs towards him and the man that’s grabbing him by the arm. What surprises her is that it’s the boy the one that’s fighting to let go while the capturer tries to hold him. But the grab is gentle, and that’s because they aren’t being attacked, they are being rescued.

“Gawain…” Nimue breathes out when she sees the man she thought she watched dying.

Tears burn in her eyes and she cannot longer control her body as she throws herself to the arms of her oldest friend. It feels as if a weight has been lifted from her chest. Even as he returns the hug, it feels too surreal; a dream. His eyes still seem tired, and he know has the Sky Folks mark permanent in his skin, but in some kind of way it just seems fitting for him: The Green Knight. The thought that she still has someone that understands her and that has been part of her life long before all this madness, is all the comfort that she needs right now.

However, it banishes in the exact moment that Squirrel starts to grab her arm.

“Tell them to stop!”

What is he talking about?

She turns under Gawain fierce look to face an image that just a few days ago would have felt as their biggest win. But now, instead of feeling victorious and plethoric, she feels heavy and a sharp pain goes through her whole body.

Four of their stronger fey have Lancelot kneeled on the ground while Arthur himself pins the sword under her chin. ‘They have wounded him’, thinks Nimue facing him for the first time in the day. His hood is down, messy and dirty hair escaping his bun, and there’s fresh blood running from his temple down his cheek.

It resembles to blood tears.

What really surprises Nimue —and what makes her take a step towards him— is the defeated look that he glares at her. She can almost feel it in her own guts. Fear, desperation, tiredness, defeat, hurt; but above all, a feeling so cold that Nimue shivers. Death.

He’s ready to die.

Why she feels the way she does about him? Why her body suffers at the mere thought of those eyes being closed forever? Her heart beats so strong she fears to faint, but that string that now shines as the first day, keeps her locked into his intense look. All her life has been filled with wrongness and the feeling that everything inside her was wrong, so a primary instinct fills her as she goes to Arthur and stands as the Queen she’s now.

Another blood threat runs in his pale skin till the neck hem of his already bloodies shirt.

Something monstrous takes her as the thought of his blood in her hands fills her memories, and it’s only feed by the realization that it’s someone else who’s hurting him.

“He’s our prisoner now.” Her voice is steady, strong, enough to make an army tremble in their shoes. “He has come to us willingly and we will hold a council to decide what where gonna do.” She shifts his focus from an astonished Arthur to the men in his knees that exudes surprise. “We’re gonna prove them, that we’re not the monsters.”

She doesn’t know why she says that last phrase out loud, she doesn’t even recall thinking it. But it feels too right to pronounce it, to look at those conflicted eyes and give them something to hold on. Nimue is sure that it would have been easier to condemn him right here, right now; that this decision will only mean questions and accusations that she’s not sure to be able to answer. But as she turns to look to where Squirrel and Gawain she knows that she has done what was the correct thing to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in the camp and things are about to go doooooown!!
> 
> I hope you have enjoyed this chapter and sorry to be so slow at writing, but I'm trying to improve my English writing. 
> 
> And I wanted to say a huuuuuge thank you for all the kudos and comments you all have left in the previous chapter, I can't stress enought how much it means every single one of those actions. 
> 
> Also! I have make a trailer for this story and you can find it in my Youtube Channel (https://www.youtube.com/channel/UChC75-Wpmw-VhP1otu0u-IA?) and if you prefer it, it's also on my twitter. In both places my name is @judinthegalaxy, so feel free to come and say hi!
> 
> See you in th next update and get ready for the aaangst.


	5. Chapter 5

Nimue’s head is about to explode, she’s sure. And what’s even worse is that she knows that once she steps one foot outside this meeting she will have to explained to her closer friends that aren’t part of it.

What she thought in the moment where she spared the Monk’s life came to reality even sooner that she expected. As the four Fey dragged an almost knocked out fierce warrior, Arthur jumped with so many questions that she didn’t know in what language he was talking to her. Then, Squirrel came to her talking too fast for her to understand and Gawain, despite staying silent, his eyes screamed that he knew more than what he let the others see. And that was only the beginning.

Now she stands in the middle of a council reunion —at last they have allowed her to sit somewhere— trying to make sense to all the ideas that are thrown at her. But as she tries to listen to all of them, the only think that stays in her mind is how stupid all of them sound. A public execution? A ritual? Using him as a weapon against the Paladins?

That last one is the only one that has some sort of appealing to Nimue, but the truth is that it only passes as a flash. That would only make them look as the bad guys. They have to be cleaver about this.

“We have to be better than them.” The words slip through Nimue’s lips in such a way that she doesn’t realise she has said them out loud till she sees how everyone is looking at her.

“What do you believe is the best option. A trade?”.

“No. They wouldn’t accept him back.” She stands up to try to gain some sort of superiority. “He defended Squirrel from the guards, and Carden is not there to welcome him back.” Despite Nimue telling Squirrel’s story a few times, the only one that seems to believe it is Gawain, who’s strangely quiet for him.

“So?”

“For now I say we keep him captive. I’m sure we can find something that relates to a cell. And he’s not going to escape, so that gives us time to discuss what to do with him.” A small part of Nimue doesn’t like the way she’s discussing his future, it feels odd. But she has to remember who he is, or was.

“That’s madness!” snaps Arthur. “He’s a criminal and should be judged for his crimes!”

“The same way you were judged by yours?” fights Nimue back. “We all committed crimes! And yes, I know what he did and I don’t need anyone to remember me those. But he saved Squirrel, and me.” Nimue lifts her chin and she embodies all the confidence a queen should have. “I’m here because of him, so I think that, at last, I should give him the opportunity of explain himself in a judge.”

Silent falls upon the council. And Nimue feels proud to be able to do such a thing. A whisper travels through her body and she knows, once more, that she’s not the same girl she was once. She would even say that she’s not the same one that fell into that lake. It’s something that has assaulted her a few times during these past days, but moving forward seemed to be more important than some self-discovery. Not that she had moments to show any change… Wait… Can she be biased about the Monk because of her near death experience? Does that strange buzz that she has been feeling since then have something to do with how is she feeling?

She doesn’t want to run anymore. She doesn’t want to accept some left over ships and try to start over while they hope to no get attacked once more. This is their land, and now she’s willing to fight for it. And they will need any help possible.

“He’s one of the Red Paladin’s warriors. Maybe if we spare him his life he might help our cause.”

“He’s the best fighter I have ever seen”, speaks Gawain for the first time, his eyes fixed on Nimue. “He would be an amazing acquaintance for us.”

She has known him for a long time, as long as she can remember, and that’s why she’s surprised by his words and the look in his now more greenish eyes: he believes in her decision, in him. “I could take care of him. If he saved Percival she might not be so lost.”

Lost?

That words resonates inside Nimue while the elders start arguing again. Lost? Did Gawain know him? And he wasn’t lost, he was one of the knights of the Red Paladins, he knew what he was doing all along. Sparing his life —if that ends up happening— will only be because of military tactics and to prove them that they are better than those assassins. But now she’s curious, she wants to ask Gawain about the meaning behind his words and for a longer explanation of what happened to him.

“Alright. Tomorrow, at the twilight, the trial will take place.” The elder turns towards Nimue. “Try to rest till them, my queen. You must be tired.”

If you knew, she thinks.

That’s the opportunity she seeked to talk to Gawain, but when she’s about to reach him, Arthur stops her.

“What was that?”

“What was ‘what’?”

“Accusing me of being a criminal?”

“If I recall correctly, you _were_ a criminal…” Nimue tries to look over Arthur shoulder, towards Gawain, but he moves to block the view.

“But not a mass murderer!”

“Don’t scream at me!” Nimue cuts him. “I’m supposed to be the queen, doesn’t it?” She doesn’t wait for an answer before speaking again. “So, as a queen, I’ll be the one to judge what’s best for _my_ people.” She marks intentionally the word ‘my’. “And now, I have to go to discuss some things with Gawain.”

Nimue isn’t even two steps away when Arthur speaks again.

“About him?”

“Yes.”

***

It turns out that Gawain is as confused as she is regardless his living state.

He doesn’t remember anything, just a wave of warmth and then he awoke in the middle of a forest clearing, under a mountain, surrounded by all types of plants and flowers. Then, he discovered his marks were permanent on his body. Once he woke up, he went to the forest, and it was there when he felt even more connected with the nature than before. It was as if the forest was part of them, telling him little secrets that he shouldn’t know. This was how he found the tracks, and how he had been able to find the survivals of the ambush that the Stone King prepared for them. It’s then he learned an alliance with the Red Spear, something Nimue already suspected after the tragic situation with Dof, Pym’s ‘friend’. Now they are divided, some of them are in these caves, and the others are with the Vikings, trying to find a more suitable place to regroup and prepare for the next move. Whatever that is.

After Gawain explained everything to Nimue, she can’t stop the words coming from her mouth.

“Do you know him?” She doesn’t have to say who she’s referring to, Gawain understands.

“A brief meeting… But very… informing.”

“What do you mean?”

Gawain casts a look towards the tunnel she knows they have used to imprison the Monk.

“He looked so lost Nimue. It was an overall feeling that told me that he has something underneath, that there’s something missing from his story.”

“What story? He has helped to erase our kind from this world.”

“And still, you have tried to keep him alive.”

And she still doesn’t know why she has done that. She has even argued with Arthur! Still, he was getting on her nerves, so she isn’t so sorry about that.

“He’s special, Nimue. I just know.”

“He almost killed you!”

“But he didn’t. And you know what he is.” The look in Nimue’s face gives her away because Gawain keeps talking. “They did something to him, no Fey would allow what the Paladins have done if something horrible isn’t behind it.”

“He’s a traitor.”

“And he has risked everything to save Percival.” Gawain lets a breath pass. “And you.”

Nimue doesn’t answer, she just gives Gawain one last look full of connection and starts to walk towards the tunnel Arthur has explained they have habilitated to function as a jail for him.

Maybe it’s because they have spent several hours apart, but she can’t deny his presence once she starts to see a dim light. She almost can feel the cold of the walls in her back, and the preoccupation of what will happen next. And those feelings aren’t hers, but his.

Only the events that have shaped her as a queen can make her keep her back still when she looks at him. The infamous Weeping Monk… sitting in a cell ground, the hood down exposing his dirty appearance, from his hair, to the dried blood in his face. But despite everything, the marks are still there.

“What name shall I call you? Squirrel used one once.” She waits a minute for an answer, but after such a long night she’s impatient. “Or should I call you Monk? Paladin?” ‘Traitor’, she wants to add, but her tongue stops her.

This gets his attention because he snaps his head from the hiding spot that was his knees. “No.”

“Then, what.”

“I don’t know,” he whispers, and Nimue only listens to him because they are alone

Nimue heart shrinks a bit when she realises everything that those words hide. Something Gawain said resonates in her. He said he was lost, and she didn’t understand why he meant with that. But now, seeing him seated in the improvised cell, hugging his legs while he isn’t able to look at her eyes, she might start to know the weight of that statement. Even now she doesn’t feel she’s facing an assassin, or the greatest weapon that the Red Paladins had, she feels as she’s in front of a scared boy. And that breaks her heart, and her stupid morals because once more she doesn’t know how to feel about him. Nimue knows that she should feel anger, disgust, anything but empathy towards the monster that has caused so much pain.

But here she is, with her hear in a fist and tears burning in her eyes. Why does she feel so much towards him? Why she feels like she could tell exactly what he feels right now? Why her fingertips burn in need to comfort him?

“Maybe your given name would be proper to use.” She tries with a softer tone while taking a few more steps towards him. Only a look makes her realise that if he hasn’t escape, it’s because he didn’t want to. After a few more minutes of silence, she speaks again. “You had a name before them.” Nimue is sure she has heard Squirrel call him by a name, something with an L, but now she’s unable to remember it.

“Lancelot, once I was Lancelot.”

Something inside Nimue changes. A missing part of her now is just warm and her tongue wants to taste what her name might feel to be said out loud. It seems so familiar it scares her, but just for a second because some part of her is already craving to accommodate his identity in her life. Just as if she had just meet an old friend, longed for a long time. It’s warm, and familiar, a word she would like to say over and over just because the sound of it is beautiful.

Not only a whirlwind of emotions sweeps around her mind, but also her body. The same sensation of the first time she met him is once again in the back of her neck. But stronger. The Hiddens are whispering but she can’t understand what they are saying, just individual words, sensations even. ‘Finally’, ‘seek him’, relieve, pace, calm. ‘He’s lost, help him’. Nimue wants to scream at her, shout that she doesn’t have to take care of anyone, but the string tenses inside her and she has to take a few more steps forward, till she’s face to face with the wooden logs that separates them both.

“It’s okay if I use the name?” She doesn’t know why she’s whispering such an intimate question, but anything else just feels odd.

He looks at her for the first time since she has entered. His blue eyes keep shining as bright as the blue spring sky, accented by the dark circles under his eyes that also makes his marks look even more scary. He hasn’t rest. Again. Nimue looks at the plate besides him, full.

“You haven’t eaten.” At this point she just feels torn between playing with him and throwing at his face that they aren’t wealthy enough to throw food away, or maybe his taste is too classy. But that same feeling says to her that this has nothing to do with the matter, that’s something deeper. “You don’t like it?”

“I don’t feel like deserving it.”

This time the shrink is more painful.

This is when she decides to take one more step, even if the wooden logs are between them.

Nimue rests a hand above one of the logs and closes her eyes, focusing on being able to take one more step towards him. the whispers increase, but for the first time they don’t seem threatening neither she listens to screams, at the contrary, they are soft and encouraging. Nimue feels welcomed to use their magic.

The whispers stop and her hand now is suspended in the air. She can now take those steps.

“Are you here to punish me?”

The sensation grows stronger, and bigger, inside her. Because of that, she knows —not really why or how— that this isn’t the first time he has been in this situation, that he has said those words before and that they hide something horrible behind them. And she wants to know what.

Her look might be throw away her thoughts, or the fact that he also felt a little bit dizzy because of all those feelings he’s sensing now she’s closer to him, because he keeps talking. “It’s what he did.”

“He?”

“Fa… Carden.”

An image surfaces in Nimue’s mind. Maybe it’s her imagination, or her insufferable need of creating some sort of empathy towards him, or the fact that this same image is something that Lancelot has been thinking over and over again since they imprisoned him. A little boy, blond curls wet with sweat and cheeks stained with tears, lays in the floor suffering some sort of shocks. He’s in pain. A man, with red robes, holds a long lance that has blood dripping from the end.

She’s with him once more, confused about what just has happened. But a question is not what leaves her lips, but a statement.

“He’s dead. I killed him.”

The air in the room shifts towards something she doesn’t know how to interpret. But it’s a little warmer.

“I think that’s a good thing.”

“It is?”

“I don’t know. There might be others.” She doesn’t know if he’s talking about abusers or crazy fanatics that are willing to destroy a whole culture just for a stupid belief.

“You know them?”

“Some.”

“Could you help us?” She takes a few more steps, till she’s topping him.

Nimue plans what to figure out a few things, like his relationship with Squirrel, what happened in the camp and if there’s an immediate threat to them that has to be taken care of. In her plans, the idea of discussing a possible alliance, wasn’t an option. Till now. She knows that she has spilled out their plans, or at least her plan of sparing his life in exchange to help them to take down the Red Paladins, this is something she would have suggested in his trial. A trial she hasn’t even mentioned to him.

“Yes.”

The world seems to stop. The air no longer feels heavy but as a summer breeze that carries the fresh smell of the woods. There’s something else, maybe it’s the perspective of all the options that he can bring into this war, or the feeling that even in the darkest souls there’s still light. Her heart starts to imagine scenarios that are too far away from the situation they are facing right now, but she can’t stop herself but wonder what those three letters will mean.

He moves, just a tiny bit, but it’s enough to make him hold his back side while he bites his lower lip. Week body. Week soul.

“Haven’t they attended you?” The concern in Nimue’s voice surprises them both.

“I don’t think I deserve it.”

“I’m going to be who decides that.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so happy how this has turned out! The unny thing is that this was going to be the trial chapter, but then the conversation with Nimue happened and that had to be the main focus of the chapter. 
> 
> Thank you so so so so so so much for those 200 kudos, I'm a big crying hear every time I recive an email and when I read your comments. You make me so happy.
> 
> PD. Because I have always wanted to create some sort of fanart, and because covid has been a **** with me this summer in regards of working, I have created a Cursed Collection on RedBubble! I'm so happy with it, it may seem silly, but as a merch fan myself, it brings me an enourmous joy!   
> I leave here the link, but you can find me there with the same name as here, *judinthegalaxy*
> 
> https://www.redbubble.com/people/judinthegalaxy/shop?asc=u
> 
> Love you <3


	6. Chapter 6

_“...the most delightful and choicest pleasure is that which is hinted at, but never told.”_

_Chrétien de Troyes_

Nimue leads Pym to the same tunnels she has been just moments ago. She’s conscious that there are far better healers among the fey that are staying in these caves, but Pym is the only she trusts to not try to poison or kill him while ‘healing’ him.

“Are you going to tell me where are we going or I still have to follow you blindly.” Pym has followed her friend since the moment she has laid eyes on her.

So many years of friendship ends up forming a sixth sense that tells when your best friend needs you. And that’s what Pym felt when Nimue entered the room. She felt it, but it was mutual because Nimue knew that no healer would approach him willingly, so when she saw her best friend, she smiled for the first time in days.

Now, walking besides her through the dark corridors and only having said: “Bring everything you need to heal someone that has been badly wounded for several days.”, she wonders if it wouldn’t have been better if she told Pym the truth from the beginning. But, as much as it pains her admit it, that wasn’t her highest priority at the moment. Now, that’s another story.

“Don’t you have any question?”

“Plenty. But I trust you, so…”

“I need you to heal the Monk,” Nimue bursts at feeling the trust that her best friend has in her.

Pym stops, or well, the world could have been in the one doing it because she doesn’t recall turning on herself to watch her friend at the face. Maybe she should have picked the needed and try to heal him by herself, or let his fey blood try to work out the recovery. Only when she dares to fix her look on the eyes of her friend, she realizes that there isn’t fear but such an amount of curiosity that she thinks Pym will explode.

“ _The_ Monk?”

“Yes.”

“I need some answer.”

And because she’s her friend, no some stupid old council, she tells her _everything_. It’s refreshing, and freeing, to share something too deep inside her that Nimue feels it can drown her. There are words that she pronounces for the first time —“I swear Pym, I could feel such a coldness surrounding me that I thought I was dead, but then I started to feel something… Something warm! And I just knew that I had to keep fighting because someone was coming after me.” —. Then, there are words too scary to say them out loud, but she doesn’t need to fear that shadows because her friend, somehow, understands the feelings that _Lancelot_ has awakened in her. It’s almost cathatrtic to feel free enough to talk about everything that has happened to her for the last week.

Just a week, yes, but Nimue’s body feels like it has been a life time.

“You really need some vacations.”

“Tell them that.”

Pym lets out a chuckle.

“So… He has a name. And blue eyes.”

“What does it matter how he’s eyes look?”

“I don’t’ know, but I think I deserve those kind of details.” There’s something in Pym’s voice that Nimue knows that there is more than her friend lets her know. But right now, her whole being is working with the last remains of energy. She just wants to sleep till her body stops hurting.

And for that, she has to do one more thing.

The rest of the walk is filled with small talk that Pym commands by explaining to Nimue everything she has to know that has happened the last days, while she was gone. However, the light ambiance doesn’t say forever, because when the girls turn the last corner to face the remaining meters to the Monk, a shift happens in both of them.

For Pym is the fact that she will have to, not only face the infamous Weeping Monk, but also heal him, touch him. For Nimue is kind of the opposite. Being near him makes her wonder, shiver and feel some sort of adrenaline she hasn’t felt with anyone else. Not even Arthur, whatever he’s for her. It’s almost as if he can feel something inside of her that it’s hidden from anyone else, like a strange connection that can’t be explained. At least, right now.

The little hairs behind her neck rise up when she can start to spot the infamous warrior.

The image of a frightened little boy, such as Squirrel, comes to Nimue mind. Too scared to move, too bruised to speak.

But he isn’t a little boy, not anymore.

She realises that Pym stays back. But she doesn’t, she walks till she tops him.

“We’re here to try to heal you a little bit before the trial.”

“What’s the reason to heal a monster when his faith is written in stone.” There’s something so terrific about his tone, that Nimue backs up a little bit. If it wasn’t for those blue eyes, she would say that this is not the same man she has spoken to a few minutes prior.

“Your faith will be decided tomorrow, as I have already stated.” She takes a deep breath, looks at her friend, and back to the man. “And as I have already said, I’m gonna decide what happens.”

Nimue nods towards Pym, who takes little steps to Lancelot till she sits almost beside him. She seems so little in comparison. But there’s a click in the young woman, because she straight her back and starts to extract and sort all the stuff she has thought could work. It’s not easy to pick what you need when you don’t know what you’re facing.

“I’m gonna need to see your wounds.”

That doesn’t seem to sit up well with him, because he shifts her pose into something more of an attack position despite the groan that hisses through his lips due to the pain in his side.

“She’s here to help you.” Nimue is starting to feel really frustrated and that only makes her animosity towards the former Monk rise inside her. Is he trying to prove a point or he’s just stupid?

But it’s not pride what fills Lancelot’s eyes, it’s something rawer and simple: he doesn’t trust Pym and what they are trying to do to him. At the end of the day, they’re form opposite sides in this war; they’re enemies. Maybe she’s about to murder him, or poison him, or torture him. that incommodes Nimue, a lot actually.

Lancelot’s blue eyes go from the red-haired woman and the Fae Queen. Why would they try to heal him? For what’s up to him, they could let him rot in this cell. So he can’t quite understand why they are in front of them as if he’s the one acting strange. But yet again, that strange sensation that buzzes inside of him every time she’s near comes at him. This time it’s stronger than when she came the first time to see him, it resembles more when something was calling at him to help her. The whisper seems to talk, to murmur something that he can’t quite understand but feels like it’s telling him to trust her.

Maybe he has gone mad. Maybe she’s a demon after all, and has poisoned his mind. Maybe Father Carden was right all along and she’s a punishment send for him.

Temptation.

He should avoid it, fight it as Christ did in the desert. But yet again, he finds that his mind is too muddy to make a decision based on what was once his faith. 

“She’s a friend, and she will heal you if you let her.” Nimue’s words are a mere whisper, but it sends a shiver through both bodies that now stand too close.

“Do you think that I deserve it?” Lancelot says, eyes focused only on Nimue.

“It doesn’t matter what I think. It’s the correct thing to do.”

“Heal me?” he can’t, but ask.

“Help a lost fey.” Gawain’s words resonate inside of her, that conversation too deep inside her. She knows that she has to have a longer conversation with her long-time friend to figure out what he exactly meant.

He has never been healed before, not when wounded in the battlefield, even less if the wounds were meant to teach him a lesson. This is why he proceeds with it as if he was doing something too alienating to him that it was a first. And it is, but Nimue doesn’t know, at least not while he takes out his cape an upper tunic, but she quickly realises that something is really wrong when she can spot the huge scare that crosses his upper chest. It’s really bad.

A look towards Pym and both girls understand what’s laying before them.

Lancelot stops at his undershirt, even if that is too ripped and bloody to be even considerate a piece of clothing.

“Do you… have any sort of…” Pym’s voice is raspy and low, unsure of what to say or how to behave in front of the villain that has haunted her nightmares since that day in their village.

“How did they heal you. When wounded.” Nimue’s voice is everything that Pym’s wasn’t; fast, steady, and even a little bit aggressive. And she is not asking any question, not when she already has the answer.

She remembers the abbey, and the prayers around a moribund body that needed medicine and herbs, but it was preferable that he died than being saved by a Fey remedy.

“God healed the body of the soul He believed is worthy.” His voice is a mere whisper.

“He may think highly of you.” Nimue is unable to hide the sarcasm in her voice.

“I…” Lancelot’s voice breaks and it’s thanks to the sniff that Pym gets out of him when trying to clean the wounds of his face that the tension breaks. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

“You have survived quite the wounds…”

“They said I was their greatest weapon… Their first line warrior.”

“For what I know, that means cannon fodder.”

Lancelot only gives a little shrug, while turning all his attention to Pym, who’s now healing his face. Nimue is about to ask if they need any help with his body wounds, when a voice calling her starts to resonate in the tunnel.

Kaze.

“My Queen,” says the warrior with a too presumptuous bow for Nimue’s liking. “The council asks for your presence in the matter of tomorrow’s trial.” Her sight goes from the Fey Queen to the immobile Ash Fey.

“Oh. Can you stay with Pym? Help her in whatever she might need.”

The reality behind Nimue’s words is not about helping Pym in the healing process than giving her friend a moral support instead of leaving her alone with someone that she doesn’t trust at all. Not that Nimue does it, but she’s sure she could take him down, so that’s why she was so confidence into going alone to talk to him.

***

It turns out that the only thing that the council wanted was to make sure that there was enough room for everyone that wanted to see the trial of the Weeping Monk and that Nimue is sure about conduct the session. As if that’s even something to question! That was the first thing that got into her nerves, but then it came Arthur again, with his pleads and stupid questions that she didn’t feel to answer. Yes, they kissed, and yes, they had sex, but that doesn’t give him some sort of power over her or her role as Queen.

And then, there was the subject about the missing sword with the too missing Arthur and Morgana.

They have to solve that, and soon.

Nimue’s head feels numb when she lays in her bed. Well, what they said it’s her bed. She’s staying in a cave made room, with two mattresses and a few more objects that helps to tied up the whole space. They said this room was only for her, but she doesn’t have to question a lot about who’s that second bedding for when Pym enters the room— cave.

“What a way to show me how much you love me… Leaving me alone with the deathliest fey assassin ever to exist.”

“Don’t be dramatic. He wasn’t going to hurt you.”

“Because you trust him?”

“Because he’s highly wounded.” Nimue does a face to Pym.

“Sure.”

“What does that mean.” Now, Nimue is at the defensive.

“Come on… I have been your friend forever… I can read your looks.” She does a little wink at her friend and Queen, but when she sees that Nimue isn’t returning the joke, she proceeds with a more formal voice. “There was something when the two of you were in the room, and you left it banished. I don’t have any magic, you know it, but I could feel it.”

That’s all the confirmation that Nimue needs to accept the fact that, indeed something happens between the two of them. It’s not something out of her fantasies or because something inside her feels like she owns him something for saving her life. It’s really there. Oh, how she wishes Merlin was here to ask him about this.

The two friends spend the rest of the night trying to update each other in all the matters till they can’t keep their eyes open so they fall asleep.

However, those hours of rest, seems not to be enough for Nimue, who the mere thought of presenting a trial and decree a sentence just gives her a horrible headache. But the morning doesn’t get better, because Arthur is in the dinner hall, having breakfast alongside a few Vikings and giving her a judging look. It’s too soon to have this sort of confrontation without anything in her stomach, thinks Nimue. But it’s not only Arthur who’s looking at her in that way. Many of the Fey are also looking at her with the same look.

“What a first day to go back to your duties,” murmurs Gawain.

“Yes, the trial of the Weeping Monk.” Nimue says the name looking at his friend’s now green eyes.

And those words weight so much that they hang upon them till the moment to move on from the breakfast into the trial room.

Nimue’s very impressed when she steps inside of the cave that the council transformed into what seems to be a court room with some sort of throne —made of branches braided together— where she thinks she will have to sit. Then, just a few meters from the throne, a circular platform that has a few incrusted rings in the base. A knot forms in Nimue’s stomach when she guesses the use that they will in just a few more minutes.

The room doesn’t have a lot more things, just a fewer chairs distributed alongside of the throne, the rest of it it’s just natural formations with branches, rocks and trees. The Few Queen just knows that everyone will try to squish themselves inside this place to see the trial. And it’s in that moment when she imagines everyone in this room, and a few maidens approach her, that she knows that they are trying to prove something.

They pull Nimue into her room, where they change her into a fancier dress than what’s needed. It’s a blue dress that cascades for her body till it starts to face into a deep green skirt. Her shoulders are naked and just a few uneven straps hang from her arms. The fabric feels almost ethereal. But when Pym starts to bride her hair, she can’t but ask:

“What’s going on.”

“Ryh wanted you to look…regal.”

“Regal? What is that supposed to mean?”

“I suppose… he wants you to look as a queen.”

“A queen? I feel more like a puppet.” Nimue looks at her friend when she ends braiding her upper hair into what resembles a crown. “And I’m no puppet.”

Pym smiles, happy to see that there’s her friend, a warrior with very clear ideas.

“Show them.”

Oh, does Nimue plan to show them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay... I just started my last year in collage and it has been quite a hectic weeks, but I will never abandon this story.
> 
> One think that I would like to know about you is, do you prefer shorter caps as the ones I have been posting, or longer ones?
> 
> Love you all so much.


	7. Chapter 7

_“Only a very base person forgets when he is done some shame or mischief.”_

_Chrétien de Troyes_

It’s all dark and cold for Lancelot. But what can she expect if they have blinded him and refused to dress him with anything more than his almost ripped out shirt that the red-haired girl has putted him. He doesn’t shiver, why would he do it when coldness is feeding him again. And this time it doesn’t seem as if any spark will burn inside him. A onetime only.

His mind seems to speak two voices, the one he tries to here above the other by following the two guards that are in front of him and no fighting the two that are behind him. Even blinded he knows he could take them down. And that’s what the other voice seems to whisper, that he’s in the heart of the Feys, that he’s strong enough to fight the guards and go and take the control over all of them. That he could kill —murder— the Wolf Blood Witch.

Nimue.

He has accomplished what all his former brothers would have sold their soul for. Meeting her. So young, so beautiful, so _human_. She’s indeed what all sinners would sin for, an image that painters would dream of portray into a painting for all eternity. But what does he have to think about it, about her. Is she indeed a demon just as the blade she wields? Or for the contrary is an angel as her gestures, face and voice seems to portray?

“Walk.” A hand is now on his shoulder and pushes him through what he quickly realizes is an open space. The air is lighter than the one in his cave, and there’s too many murmurs to be a small space.

The trial. She has told him this was coming.

And here he is.

Maybe this will become his end, the real down of what his existence forced him to live a life he is no longer sure he wants to experience. What kind of future does await him after this trial? After what he has done? Yes, he has told her he will fight for this cause, but he’s too damaged, maybe he’s too beyond any sort of salvation.

But once again, even when he is drowning in darkness, he feels her, as a titling light among everything else in the world. She’s near.

“My queen,” one of the guards says.

He doesn’t stand a chance when something knocks him behind the knees and makes him fall into the ground, sharp pain striking him into the gut. Maybe that’s what they wanted, because he can feel how the guards move quickly to free briefly his wrists only to chain him again, but not at his back, but arms separated and tied into the ground.

He can’t but groan a little bit when they push the chains too much that he feels his shoulders at the verge of breaking.

“Stop!” Her voice, as a pray, breaks through the place.

Nimue is not conscious that she’s the one who screamed till she sees all the elders —and probably all the fey that are gathered in the cave— looking at her. However, her eyes are focused on the man tied up in the ground, defeated and surrounded by such a dark aura that even the Hidden seem to feel uncomfortable. She recognizes it, she has felt it before. He’s ready to die, without fighting, without claiming any second chance. No, he’s ready for her to take his life.

As if she could.

What she’s feeling now, watching him kneeled, blood staining his ripped shirt, wounds and scars at the sight of anyone who dares to look; it’s too feral, too primal, to try to explain it to anyone.

And that’s why she stands up, without caring about anyone thinks, and approaches the circular platform.

Lancelot knows she’s near. Closer at every breath he takes till the point that she’s everything he can feel, smell. The room seems to disappear and only her lavender perfume, mixed with the petrichor of the wood, is everything he cares. But oh, if he’s wrong. Because the moment her hands touch his skin, willingly and too sweet, to retire his blindfold will be burned in his mind for all eternity.

The sensation that shakes both of them could freeze what Hell predicates to be. A burning feeling goes through Nimue to electrify Lancelot cheek. If anyone told Lancelot that he now bares a mark made by her, he would have believed because this is what he has imagined all his life the touch of God would be. Hours, minutes or seconds, it doesn’t matter, not when the whole universe is quiet trying to guess the next move of Nimue’s hand. A whole life of choices stands before both of them, and the next move could determinate the next ones they are going to take.

While being a little bit dizzy, not a single bit of her being wanting to take distance with Lancelot, she slowly moves her hand to take off his blindfold. But she can’t fully contain herself when she lightly caresses his hair in the process.

Lancelot feels numb and disoriented, her being all over him to feel something else. But that’s till the darkness disappear in favour of the light she brings him when she takes off his blindfold.

A murmured gasp escapes Lancelot lips.

 _‘Oh, how could Father Carden think this creature was a demon when she is the vivid image of paradise?_ ’ thinks Lancelot. She’s everything he wishes he could dream every night. The pale skin shinning against the deeps colours of a lake, brown hair farming her pure face and shinning bright blue eyes looking at him in such a way it makes him wonder if she’s really looking at him, because he doesn’t deserve it.

Nimue knows she has to do something, move or say anything that will make the trial start. But she can’t do neither. Words seem to be too complicated for her to speak them, and her body doesn’t want to move away from his.

But the sound of the chains that keeps him in his knees breaks the moment.

She quickly moves, trying to remember the said paper she has to portray. Even if it’s an unpredictable one because she has made her own mind about him, the fey killer.

Distance seems to not be enough to break the thread that refuses to separate them.

“The Weeping Monk, Fey Killer.” The elder from the north fays irrupts the silence that the interaction between Nimue and Lancelot created. “We’re gonna judge your crimes, and decree your sentence.” A murmur starts to grown in the room.

Something inside Nimue stings at the fact that he used the plural, but she doesn’t let that show. Not when she’s going to take control over the situation.

“First.” Her voice seems to shake the place, every single one of the attendees now looking at her. “Have you surrender willingly?” Nimue asks that question not for her, she already knows the answer, but for everybody to know, even if the answer is just a nod. “Good. Are you here as a deflector?” Another nod. But she doesn’t continue, but takes a step towards him, as if her body was pulled to him. “Are you a fey?” she asks, loudly for everyone to hear.

This is the moment Nimue has waited into the trial. This is her card, alongside with saving Squirrel and her, because him being a Fey change everything, even more because of his tears marks. Having him killed would cause a reaction, but it would be even worse if it’s know that he’s the last one of a clam that’s thought of being extinct.

“Yes.” It’s the first time he talks, and his hoarse voice somehow resonates around the place, causing shivers to anyone that’s listening his most hidden confession.

“What kind.” Nimue wants a quick answer, just to make sure that the elders can hear it before everyone starts talking.

“Ash Folk.”

And as it was guessed, everyone exclaims with surprise and starts discussion the next move. But Nimue is still looking at Lancelot. She knows what she has done, giving away her identity, showing them that this man is not human, but one of them. This could mean nothing, but could also be the only card that could have some sort of importance for choice that’s suspended over his head. And he also knows what she has done, for him. It would have been easy to suppress that detail, the knight behind the throne wouldn’t have said anything, but now his past is something at the reach of anyone inside this chamber.

“That’s not possible.” The same elder man from the beginning screams.

“But look at his marks!”

“Maybe they made it.”

“The Ash Folks have been gone for a long time.”

And any type of sentences like those were happening in the place.

But there’s another conversation, one that’s more private and intimate that what any of the presents could guess. That’s because there are no words, just an ocean of questions against the clear blue of a lake. Her lake. Their eyes haven’t leaved the others while the whole world, or just these caves, seems to crumble due to all the doubts that now fill what should have been an easy sentence.

“It’s true!” Gawain’s voice resonates against the others, making them shut.

“He’s a traitor, then!”

“Why were you with the Red Paladins?” asks Nimue.

That breaks their connection, and that thread that has been there since they have locked into each other eyes, seems to tighten to the fragile point. Maybe this is too much, maybe Nimue has assumed too much of his intentions, or maybe she should have approached the matter with more delicacy, but she just want to take something clear out of all this.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s not an answer!”

“I truly don’t know. They have always been… there.” Lancelot voice lowers as the images in his mind start to blur between each other. He has never asked a question, because Father Carden was God’s voice on Earth, and you never questioned God’s voice. But he has always known that his live is not complete, that there are black holes that threaten to suck him in if he goes too deep into searching in them. And the thought of getting lost inside his own head is already scary in his day to day, so he doesn’t need another reason the fear his mind.

“He could be lying to us, my Queen.” There’s a push in the elder’s voice, a subtle meaning of what Nimue should do next.

And that’s why she does the opposite.

Nimue approached Lancelot once again, relaxing her shoulders when she feels the thread getting strong and the buzzing behind her mind getting calmer.

“I can prove him.” She looks up to her people. “I can assure you the truth and guarantee my decision.”

She doesn’t know if this is going to work, it’s a hot choice. Even more when it has been a hot minute since she has performed some sort of magic without the sword. But there’s something in the air, something around him that makes her connection to the Hidden more stable, more comfortable and easy to use. She has felt that before, when they were in the woods and her wounds were healing faster, better, than usual.

One more step and she’s just a few centimetres from him, feeling his almost noticeable body heat.

“I don’t think you will like this”, she murmurs, only for him to hear.

“Not that I have any other option.”

“Pretty fair.”

Those words are the last stanza in which will be a point of no return. The no return to the heated feeling that Nimue could have had towards Lancelot, and the no return for Lancelot because all of his dark spots are going to be pulled to the surface, to a too cruel light.

Nimue puts her hands in Lancelot’s temples, feeling the dried blood that still coats his hair, and starts to call the Hidden.

This time is totally different. Is different from the time she called to grow some apples, and different from when she had the sword. This time, it was as if the Hidden were already there, already around them. The connection between them seems to be set into life, fuelling the magic that runs through Nimue’s body. It’s an intoxicating feeling, and Nimue has to remain herself to not drown in it.

This is the first time she has tried something like this, and she’s a little lost as the beginning. But the whispers of the hidden are clearer as she enters him. “Look, look inside him…” “Search him… He’s inside here…” “He has forgotten, help him remind him…” “He has to bleed before healing…”

The whispers continue till the point she feels something snap inside her. No, not inside her, but inside him. She’s now inside him, drinking from so much horror, so much memories, that for a moment she feels the core pain that all those images seem to carry. If someone asked her to describe what she’s seeing, she wouldn’t be able to respond, maybe because everything is a blur, or maybe because she can’t see through her tears. Once again, similar to the one she has already seen, a boy is crying in the ground, his hands with blood and fresh tears in his eyes. “We need to purge the demon inside him”, says a distant voice that Nimue finally recognizes as Father Cardan’s. A woman’s scream. Scars, a lot of scars. But hidden under all these images, a feeling, so raw and cruel that a part of Nimue wants to let go and leave it. But she pushes forward.

There’s hated, but towards himself. A cold feeling that rushes and fills every piece of him. Death. So much death that makes Nimue cry. Not only the ones the he has caused, but the ones that surrounded him all his life. But the worst is in which this feeling is directed towards himself. It’s painful to feel just _so much_.

Overwhelmed, Nimue takes a few steps backs. And it’s only when she hears Arthur calling to her, that she recalls the tears running down her cheeks. Her heart aches, literally. She has had a though year, and she has always felt outer place. However, what she has just watched is something that escapes her understanding. She has her mother, and despite hating her powers, she never felt that raw feeling towards herself. Yes, she wanted them gone, but she has never hated her body or her being. On the other side, Lancelot, ripped out from his family, tortured till the point that they damaged him to the point that he was turned inside and outside, making him bleed at levels that no other breathing being could have survived. But he did, and he’s now looking at Nimue as if she’s his next torturer.

And she hates that look as she has never hated anything.

It almost makes her scream.

“I won’t kill you”, she whispers. Because she doesn’t care if the rest of the room listens, no, she only cares about _him_ listening, and feeling the truth in her words as his mind eases from the intrusion. 

Nimue feels the way he’s barely keeping himself together, tears shinning in his blue ocean eyes and his lower lip trebles. But it goes deeper, she can feel that fragility inside her, as if it was telling her to help him stand in one piece, begin.

“Do you swear by your fey name, to stand by my side and help me protect these people?” Now her voice is louder, so maybe the others can listen even if they are an echo in Nimue’s ears. Right now, they two are the only ones that exist.

“Yes.”

And the room recovers the sound.

Nimue can’t make out the words that are screamed at her, but she stays in her site, knowing that this will be a turning point in her reign. But they are the ones that hopped she would play a part as a puppet queen, but she hasn’t risked her life, almost died, from them to tell her what to do or what decisions make. She has sworn that she will do anything to protect and guarantee the safety of her people no matter what. The man kneeled in front of her is an insider of the Red Paladins, someone that knows how they work and how they fight. Even more, in words of Gawain, he’s one of the best fighters he has ever seen.

And she tells them that, only tearing apart her eyes from Lancelot to look at Gawain and breathe a little bit more when he says some words in favour of the warrior, even explaining why he feels like they should give Lancelot an opportunity. Gawain even reminds them that Lancelot saved Squirrel, at the expenses of himself, and then Nimue, their queen.

She turns again to make eye contact with him, some sort of a strange need of watching all his hidden emotions shine in the blue.

“Do you swear by your fey name”, she repeats, “to help us and bow loyalty to me?”

Maybe she’s trusting her instincts too much, listening to this thread inside her that whispers that she has to do this, that she has to push him because he will deliver. Still, that doesn’t mean she has her doubts, that asking to swear by his real name, something so personal for a fey, an unbreakable promise that will create a bound between them even stronger that the one that’s already tie them together.

Lancelot has been bound all his life, or that’s what he believes. And now, this might be the first time that he has a choice, that he can choose whenever try to amend his sins, or just let himself die.

He looks at her.

Maybe guardian angels exist.

“I swear by my name, Lancelot Dulac, I’ll bow to you till the day I die.” Nimue gasps at hearing his full name, something so intimate that it almost feels wrong to be said with so much public hearing. She silently hopes she’s the only one that understood the full name. When she thinks this is the last thing he will say, Lancelot subtly shifts his body, raising a little bit one of his legs despite the restrains to be kneeled in one knee. “My queen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so proud of this chapter... I know it sounds stupid, but it gave me the opportunity to drown inside both of their minds, and I always enjoy playing with these things.   
> And now the relationship is stablished, even more the bound, and let's get some fun now.


End file.
